During the day, terror—fans slicing
heads, dishwashers boiling
kittens, the hammer on the
bed—imagine. Mondays
the worst—the day
off from drinking—
death feels like a state I
can do something about.

He sleeps easily, only a sunburn
and a broken nail to dream. He, who
believes everything isn’t murder
or rape or death. Silly
man, dreaming man, never wakes
jaw clenched, chips of teeth
choking.

I dream of bits
of bodies I’ve hidden in
trees or cement. A young woman,
an old man, a new kill to manage.
I’ll forget the carved bone
and crushed faces in minutes. But never
the time it takes to convince myself
what I’m not capable of in wake-time.

Tuesday I woke with his hands
considering my throat. It wasn’t like
that, but I never thought of him
killing. Now he’s a boot
smashing an eyeball, a wire hanger
unmaking.